Bread And Wine!
i saw the buddha
in the eyes of the prisoner,
waiting to be executed.
our system of justice,
demands retribution,
as long as it's someone else!
preferably,
someone poor,
addicted, uneducated,
black, Hispanic,
or just plain old
white trailer trash.
the homeless man,
the man who's lost it all,
the man with no job,
no future, no dream...
no one will miss them anyway!
while the 'gods of success',
wheel and deal on the market,
playing with lives,
as if playing cards.
starting wars that make them rich,
raping the planet, even richer!
and taking from the poor,
always the poor.
immune?
above the law?
a different set of rules,
and a phony morality.
they kill the buddha
for bread and wine...
bread made of flesh,
wine made of blood!
the cost of justice...
afforded by the few!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Law, Law, Law
Law
Law rules the poor,
Rich rules the law,
Every law has flaw
On poor, it is rich man’s paw,
Cases are adjourned
Witnesses are manipulated,
Justice may be delayed,
But Lawyers are survived!
Rich man predicts verdict
Poor man fails to detect
Law veiled by black coat
Penal code brooded in the court
Law, Law, Law still it is raw
Still might is right
Still justice is in dim light
poem by Mula Veereswara Rao
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A sad tale of consumerism
I was born poor uneducated trailer trash;
worked myself up by my own efforts;
now I'm rich; but still inside, feel poor...
so last week, I celebrated wealth -
bought my first $20,000 Cartier watch...
now everyone who sees it, laughs...
I wonder why?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Might is right
It is always the fact that might is right
They will go on till the end to fight
They may do it with the speed of light
They have the wisdom and long sight
Small insects kill smaller one
Big also kill little one and go on
It is complete cycle of exploitation
Everybody looses in turn and in rotation
So if rich rule the scene then nothing wrong
Not all can be in race and come along
It is sheer coincidence that mighty rule
Otherwise not all the people are fool
Person with abundance can sustain losses
He may have no regret even if looses
This gives them little advantage
Rest all feel confined to cage
Once you are under domination you are bound to suffer
You may have no rights other than to differ
So poor remain poor and rich gets richer
Poor remain suppressed for times to come
Rich are dominating and always welcome
Corruption has engulfed poor and rich alike
Everybody is influenced and affected with hike
No one wants to remain as poor like
Rich too wants not to become poor and dislike
This is tendency that we feel pity for poor
We have seen them knocking the door
But it is the system that will remain forever
Even if God descends on earth it will be there
If you have same system with no discrimination
No one may work and develop alienation
They will feel free with passing of responsibility
Here comes then the end of clear and distinct ability
If you have system with loop holes anybody will escape
No one can restrict the temptation or put the cap
Only the poor fail to emerge for the want of resources
The powerful emerge and re-emerge with full force
The oppression part is little disturbing
No one can force or go on curbing
No one can be forced to undergo torture
Even God has made it very sure
The rich may have disliking for poor
Poor to may have tendency to show exit door
It has been clash of time for centuries and very old
No one can buy it or arguments can be sold
Lord may wish so for all His children
He may even grant the same blessing even
Yet that difference may remain and even if not
The needless wars might not have been fought
The human beings may create it to rule
They make use of all available tools
Rich may tackle poor and poor may tackle down trodden
As the system remains same with all the odds even
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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This Bread I Break
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Justice...
… Slow Justice
Is Better Than No Justice
… I Just Want Justice and Peace
To Feel Justice
It Must Be Real Justice
Not Cut-Deals Or Just A Piece
Full Justice
Not Pull The Wool Justice
She’s Already Been Blindfolded Enough
We Accuse Justice
But To Lose Justice
Is To Unlock Chaos’ Cuffs
Justice …
Is Lustrous
In Pearls Of Conviction Displayed
Justice …
The Huntress
Were Wild-Wily-Wrongs Are Caged
A Cry For Justice
Is Why Justice’s
Scales-Weights Shouldn’t Be In Doubt
Legal Justice
Be Equal Justice
With Rules To Balance It Out
Honest Justice
Promise Justice
Is Right For The Poor and Oppressed
But Even Rich Justice
And Even Quick Justice
Should Be A Standard, Silvered Process
Raw Justice
Shouldn’t Be Flawed Justice
But Free To All Everywhere
The Power Of Justice
Is That The Hour Of Justice
Doesn’t Run Out Of Time Anywhere
Men Must Court Justice
And Support Justice
To Qualify For Her ‘Your’ Honor
And Seek Justice
And Speak Justice
And Be A Worthy Defender Word-Warrior
Some Have Burned Justice
Some Have Spurned Justice
In The Lies That They Have Sworn
Some Have Raped Justice
Then Gaped At Justice
Laid Bare Like Loss Innocence In Porn
Oh Sweet Justice
Don’t Beat Justice
We Are In Races But We Shouldn’t Fight
Some System Of Justice
Has Idealism Of Justice
But The Whole World Needs To Get It Right …
Then True Justice
And Overdue Justice
Will Be The Law Of Every Land & Life
Without Justice
You Can Count Justice’s
Tears Rolling Down In Strife
The Hope Of Justice
And Scope Of Justice
Is That Justice Answers To GOD
The Mercy Of Justice
And Courtesy Of Justice
Will Be The Final Plea Bargain LORD …
____________________
The Sound Of Justice
Is Profound To Us …
… In Juries, They’ve Sung Her Song Or Tried
O’ I Miss Justice …
And I Wish Justice
Would Just Come Back Here and Say “High”
Written & ©: 7/19/10
by: The MoonBee
Where’s Justice … Where Did She Go?
There Are Victims Here Who Want To Know
….. MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Tears of the poor
Tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich.
Shedding of blood
Rich man's headache,
Poor men's justice.
Water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish,
Fire is the only solution
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is lover's desire
Poor men's unbearable pain.
Din is the only right choice
To put forth your demand.
Dew is the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and the king,
Morning is the 1st step
Of that poor men's sufferings.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Sonnet- Why Should God Love Me More?
Why should God love me more than a beggar?
Why should He prefer me to someone next?
Why does He give me errands much bigger?
His ways are strange and keeps me always vexed.
Where is God’s fairness when poor turn poorer?
Where is His justice when poor get disease?
Where is God’s fairness when rich get richer?
Where is His justice when Upright soon cease?
Yet, who are we to question the Master?
Our human eyes don’t see the way He sees;
He is the Giver and the One Taker;
He is the Omnipotent who decrees.
Let us not question all the things God does;
Lets do our duty without any fuss.
poem by John Celes
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Hungry For Justice?
Justice system as told
Is made for the people
That will be a guiding light
To have fairness to everyone.
To the poor and the wealthy
The laws are the basis
To identify the violations
In the civilized society.
But is there sense of fairness
For those who are accused
By opening the leveling field
Regardless of economic status?
When the rich man is accused
Justice is intentionally delayed
Until the time will come
Case will be dismissed and forgotten.
I wish this is only a dream
And there’s no enough basis
That in our society
There’s double face of justice!
That upon waking up the truth
There are still many patriots
Who are fearless to reveal
The true spirit of Justice.
poem by Bonifacio Alba
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Tears of the poor man (alternative version)
The tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich,
Yet the shedding of blood
Is the rich man's headache...
And what of the poor man's justice?
In truth, water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish!
Fire is the only solution!
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is each lover's desire,
Yet the poor man's unbearable pain.
Making a din is the only right choice
To put forth your final demand.
Dew is but the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and their kings,
While morning is but the first step
Of each poor man's sufferings..
poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Tears Of The Poor Man
The tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich,
Yet the shedding of blood
Is the rich man's headache...
And what of the poor man's justice?
In truth, water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish!
Fire is the only solution!
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is each lover's desire,
Yet the poor man's unbearable pain.
Making a din is the only right choice
To put forth your final demand.
Dew is but the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and their kings,
While morning is but the first step
Of each poor man's sufferings...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Very Thing That Makes You Rich
My father told me, lying on his bed of death,
"boy," he says, "woman she's gonna make it, don't fool your self
'cause she's got something to make a man lay that money, uh, right in her hand
And the very thing that makes her rich will make you poor
The very thing that makes her rich will make you poor"
That's right!
Well, i put you behind the wheel of a deuce and a quarter, yes i did
Had you living like a rich man's daughter, yes i did, i sure did
While you were living high on the hog
You had me down here scuffling like a dog
Well, the very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
The very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
Don't you never ever make such a bad mistake
You know i'd rather climb into bed with a rattlesnake
Then to work hard every day bringing that woman all my pay
The very thing that makes you rich makes me poor,
Makes me so damn poor
The thing that makes her rich makes me poor
The very thing that makes you rich make me poor
Very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
Makes me so damned poor
Money won't change it, no no...
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why? Why? Why?
if you're a white man
walking through a black neighborhood,
do you feel nervous?
why?
if you're the only black family
living in a white neighborhood,
do you feel isolated?
why?
and why do we think a poor
black man came from the projects?
and a poor white man
came from the trailer park?
why?
every time you see a Hispanic
family in the grocery store,
do you think 'they're illegals'?
why?
did it ever occur to you that
the people who've programmed you
to think and feel this way....
might have an ulterior motive?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Buddha Within....
Buddha's tears...
on the faces of every
hungry child in the world.
Buddha's emptiness,
in the hearts of every
person who has no home.
Buddha's sorrow,
in the eyes of every
victim of the bombings.
Buddha's silence,
at the roar of every
religious fanatic.
Buddha's compassion,
in the dirt of every
human being fallen.
Buddha's forgiveness,
in the anger of every
person driven by prejudice.
Buddha within,
seeks to evolve!
Buddha within,
just to be!
Buddha within,
already there.
Buddha within,
always has been!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Crying For Bread
"Please, lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
The suit fits you splendidly--that you'll allow.
Oh! don't say tomorrow! I see you are going;
But this will not hinder long--please pay me now.
Ma work'd all night for you! ev'ry minute;
Now she lies groaning with pain in her head;
And there by the pantry (with not a thing in it),
Sits poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"On! driver, on! they have all gone before us,
And I will not be late at the ball," Beauty said;
And wintry winds echoed her answer in chorus
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
I'll run and get change for you. Don't call me bold--
But how could you dance tonight all the time knowing
That we were left suffering, hungry and cold?
Ma looks so wild! she keeps calling for Daisy;
That was the name of my sister that's dead.
Oh! what shall I do, with my Ma going crazy,
And poor little Theodore cryiing for bread?
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
She must have some medicine--that let me buy.
Now, don't speak of beggars! 'tis money you're owing:
Do please, pay me part of it--else we must die."
On the wheels roll'd, and Fidele returned weeping;
Ah! in her absence a spirit had fled,
And morning light found her a weary watch keeping,
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
poem by Henry Clay Work
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On the Innate Drive For What is Right
As life bled, martyrdom flared its buds.
Repression, red from irritation,
Rendered chinks and cracks; but thuds of
Armament - in cowardice - accomplice of the
Dictatorial blight thro' countless years -
Wreaked its retribution:
Yet hope began to bloom a coloured carapace
Enshrining their allegiance ‘gainst the
Terror in their tears.
And on! Splits yawned - breaches in the junta:
Flesh fought fanatical minds -
Bullets welcomed into open hands
And blessed with yearnings for morality:
Chiselled man-toys of death and mutilation
Couldn't repel the might of freedom
Surging at the bright horizon.
Crepuscular rays of purpose, body,
Flooded pandemonium with
Overwhelming clarity, direction -
Burdened clouds drifting wayward as the
Light channelled out a vision,
Intensifying focus on tomorrow -
Deepen their stride
As they home in to
What is theirs,
Rightfully theirs!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The reign of justice and freedom
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Boots...
the boots of modern America,
are made of black skin, Native American skin,
poor white trash skin, migrant worker skin,
unemployed skin, homeless skin,
prisoner poverty street skin....
who will they walk on next?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Death Row
Guilty by association
Guilty due to unusual circumstances
Guilty by act of contrition
Keep on taking chances
Some lives are not important
Justice is purchased like hot bagels
If you are poor, you can easily find yourselves under the barrels
Some lives are not important
The bulldozer has plenty of time to differentiate
To choose, to pick and to discriminate
Be at the wrong place at an odd time
Is enough to find a pauper guilty of a first degree crime
It is criminal to be on death row
It is illegal and unconscionable to be so low
When the subject is forced to admit guilt
Where Judge and Prosecutors, members of the cult
Plot to convict an innocent bystander
Some lives are not important
This is sad, the jurors are the clowns of the slaughter house
A human being wearing trousers and a white blouse
Should not be treated like a nymph of the meteor crater.
In reality, under the clouds, there is no justice
Somewhere under the cave, there is a long list
Of countless children of the gods
Which have been executed by all types of cruel methods
Some lives are not important
“Thou shall not kill”, is no longer part
Of the Ten Commandments. The machine has no heart
No soul and no sense of fairness
Some lives are not important
This society of savagery and wilderness
Has to change for the better. The killing has to end
The lynching has to stop. Serious men and women must amend
The Constitution to protect the entire population
No one has the right to kill; the Institution
Ought to do a much better job than in the past
Some lives are not important
The system must be fair, blind and just at last
Blame lions, leopards and tigers, not the sheep
Injustice is too expensive and justice too cheap
It is too easy to accuse, condemn and execute
Bring the Bible, the Koran to teach the Blind and the Mute.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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The Turning Point
I went down to the highway
That runs between love and pride
And I tried to get sideways
Across the great divide
But my minds eyes on the key ring
Crying in misery
cause it wont spend one more evening
Staring back at me.
It may be by choice or a small inner voice I cant say
When you add up the cost we all have a cross
How do you write off the loss?
Where do I go from here?
How do I find my way?
When is it loud and clear
That theres no turning back? no looking back
Where do I go from here?
Nobody gets away
Its a new kind of fix
For the poor and the rich
You never know whats coming next... at the turning point.
The rules are unwritten
And nobody knows the deal
Where have I been driven
Are deamons behind the wheel?
Yeah, I know my days are numbered
Were only flesh and bone
And Ive been left to wonder
How it went so wrong.
Is it all tailor made, can the sinner be saved, I cant say
So dont hang your hat on the knife Im my back
cause nobody treats me like that.
Where do I go from here?
How do I find my way?
When is it loud and clear
That theres no turning back? no looking back
Where do I go from here?
Nobody gets away
Its a new kind of fix
For the poor and the rich
You never know whats coming next... at the turning point.
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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sorrow ***** PRISONER OF THE FLESH
I am the prisoner of my flesh which I have thoughtlessly
Inherited from the genes of nowhere
I am convicted of a mysterious crime
Nobody wants
I am the prisoner of weaknesses
Shackles my limbs, shrinks my nerves
Shrouds my mind to act perfectly in
The world of mistakes
Flesh is the jail where I am imprisoned
Wicked strengths are the metal chains fettered me
Eyes of the folks are the guards of my faults
Their tounges are like guns
Firing my head un-blood
Justice? I pervert not justice
Divine Judge
Justice is within me
I have no suspicious offender but my flesh
I beg one Divine Judge
A day of chance to pardon my life-long sentence
I confess
I am waiting now for that miracle
Please hearken my plea!
poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
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Flesh Prisoner
I am the prisoner of my flesh which I have thoughtlessly
Inherited from the genes of nowhere
I am convicted of a mysterious crime
Nobody wants
I am the prisoner of weaknesses
Shackles my limbs, shrinks my nerves
Shrouds my mind to act perfectly in
The world of mistakes
Flesh is the jail where I am imprisoned
Wicked strengths are the metal chains fettered me
Eyes of the folks are the guards of my faults
Their tounges are like guns
Firing my head un-blood
Justice? I pervert not justice
Divine Judge
Justice is within me
I have no suspicious offender but my flesh
I beg one Divine Judge
A day of chance to pardon my life-long sentence
I confess
I am waiting now for that miracle
Please hearken my plea!
poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
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